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When you pass me, think at me, look through me, I feel everything.
I see your icy brown eyes, your straight highlighted hair, you ancient Roman features.
And yet, I feel entranced only by what I feel.
I can look at you all day, all seconds, all time, and not see the facade you use to cover your journey mask.
Your eyes tell an untold story to such as I, a story that time trys to erase, but forgets to hide it from my mind.
We pass and grin, like perfect puppets of society, while my mind sees images flash through your gracefull figure, your rushed gate. I struggle to hide my understanding of your past, of what has made you into a shallow being.
It is simple, and yet complex as the stars in a midnight sky. To look at your face for a second is to try to decipher a map doodled by a newborn babe. Yet, with a sight, and a smile, I can see and understand perfectly.
You hide behind a misunderstand preconception, a mistaken notion. I understand you wish to be heard, but your voice is broken by the rushing of onslaughted fashions and forced on concepts. I can see breafly that you scream into a dark and endless hole to be heard, undertand, known.

But you remain invisible to those unlike I.

I cannot help but gaze in wonder at the simplicity of your need. At the ideas so clearly written in your dull and watery eyes, so deep and gazing, so heartbakingly cold and greedy.
My mind grasps breafly onto your shattered heart, knowing you are a lie to society, hiding behind flames of hypocracy to escape from the clutching grasps of a painfull inner darkness.

Yet this is only seen in a meer glance, from a meer gleam in your eye from the luminecent hall lights.
And then your face leaves my view, your Roman walk passes me, snickering, gearing at the emotions drawn out on my arms, hands, face. You laugh to conceal what I now know.
You are a spitting image of what I carefully show.
Yet you do not understand what I see. At least, not conciously. But deep, in the dusty reaches of your imaginings, you can see that I am a shattered mirror of your backwards reflection. So much in common, but so different in perceptions. You subconciously cry and reach out to me, wishing to grasp my cold and mangled hand. But you physically shy away, knowing to touch me will bring forth that sorrowfull monster burried and burning in your soul.

There is no way out of the pit of eternal loop you have woven for yourself. No way to escape your preconcieved notions.

And yet I cannot help but look in your eyes each time we pass. Wanting to see the sead of light somewhere in the back of your imagination, wishing you could see me as I see you. Whole and broken, alone and found.

But againt these are just dreams.

And when I wake up they shall be forgotten.